


Twenty-Seven

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s05e09 Thirty Days, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 11:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27969575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Tom mopes in his cell.
Relationships: Harry Kim/Tom Paris
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	Twenty-Seven

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set during the ‘Thirty Days’ episode, wherein Tom’s sent to the brig. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The penal colony was _so much easier_ , not because Tom wasn’t boxed into a tiny cell all day or deprived of companionship for _days_ , but because back then, Tom didn’t have a normal life to miss. Now he does. He’s still boxed into a ship, still doesn’t see his family, but he has _friends_ , and he misses them more than anything in the world. The meals are simple, the PADDs all restricted, but the solitude is what kills him inside. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Harry’s smiling face, welcoming him back onto the bridge with a firm handshake and a fleeting kiss on his cheek, and he thinks of Chakotay giving him a tight nod of approval and Captain Janeway’s expression softening. He wants to run down to Engineering and wrap both arms around B’Elanna, wants to hug her tighter than even her Klingon mother could. He even wants to hear Neelix’s inane broadcasts or the Doctor’s somehow-even-more boring slideshows, but even they deprive him. 

Then Harry comes by, and he fucks it up by snapping, because Tom’s nothing if not a fuck up. He thought he’d crawled out of that. Then he threw it all away for a chance to play hero, and the worst part is, he thinks he’d still do it again. Even knowing he failed, it might’ve been even harder to sleep if he’d never tried. 

More days past, not enough to lose track, but enough that it’d be nice if the changing guards would _talk to him_ and confirm the number in his head. There’s not enough space on the PADD to keep useless things down, not if he wants to keep working on his letter and his novel. Sometimes that’s all that gets him through it. He gives up on trying to explain to his dad how he lost a rank he probably never deserved in the first place, and instead he tries to drown himself in nonsense, in blissful fantasy: he writes about Buster Kincaid getting captured by two beautiful twins and tickled until he talks. 

Sometimes when Tom closes his eyes, Harry’s face is in black and white, made all the more handsome in the stark contrast, and other times, it’s in searing colour, so sharp and vivid that Tom can almost smell his cologne. Then Tom will wake up in a cold sweat and miss being in _the chute_ of all places, because at least that hell had Harry.

When Harry comes by again, Tom’s moping. He’s not ready, wasn’t warned, and Harry passes through the force-field with a hushed, “I only have five minutes.” Tom’s face must convey his agony, because Harry says, “I’m sorry,” and looks like he means it. He doesn’t say why he can’t stay longer—they both know. Janeway’s trying to kill him. 

Intellectually, he knows that isn’t true. Knows she cares about him. He brought this on himself. But it still feels so _cruel_ to dangle Harry in front of him, like a carrot on a string, and yank that dream away before he’s really had a taste. Harry stands at the far side of the cell like he doesn’t want to be tempted to go even one second longer, but Tom holds out one hand, and Harry takes pity on him.

He pulls Harry down onto the bunk beside him with a strength he didn’t even know he still had. He’s been doing pushups, but less and less. Mostly he just wallows and writes. Harry mutters, “Hey, buddy. How you holdin’ up?”

Tom needs to ask for another glass of water. Instead he just rasps, “Buddy?” It’s like he’s been demoted in _that_ too, and that’s worse than the Starfleet one. They call each other names all the time, but it’s not what Tom needs to hear right now. 

Harry sighs and nods towards the guard. She’s turned away, giving them some semblance of privacy, but not nearly enough. Tom gets the picture. _No fraternizing with the prisoner._ But Tom’s not so sure Janeway even knows about that. B’Elanna might be the only one who does—every time she visits, she tells him how Harry’s doing. 

Tom tries to be strong and finally answers, “Not bad.” Even though _it’s bad_ , and they both know it. He feels so _pathetic_. It hasn’t even been a full month. He was supposed to be the bad boy out of them. He has a record. But Harry probably doesn’t know how cushy normal prisons are now compared to this, given all the ancient movies Tom’s shown him. It’s not like he’s got an evil nurse trying to drug him or a cellmate ready to cut out his kidney.

He gives Harry a weak smile and shifts his hand onto Harry’s knee, settling for, “I miss you.” Harry’s lips part, eyes falling to the point of contact. Tom gives him a little squeeze. He misses _this_. Touching Harry. Curling up around Harry in a big, soft bed, not a paper-thin bunk all alone. Harry’s eyes close. He probably promised himself he wouldn’t do this, like Tom did.

But he admits, “I miss you too.” And then he leans over and brushes a kiss across Tom’s cheek that almost makes up for the last few days of nothingness. It’s telling that Harry doesn’t tease him about the stubble he’s grown. Harry tells him, “Only a few more days, Tom. You’re almost there.”

“I had to do something. They were going to let the whole ocean die—”

“Tom. I know.” Harry flips their hands over, squeezing Tom’s. Tom should’ve known. He won’t have to explain to his closest friends. They get him. Get he would break the rules a dozen times over if it meant _doing the right thing_. He used to think he was nowhere near that kind of person. Then Janeway gave him a second chance, and this is how he’s repaid her. “So... write anything interesting?”

They probably have two minutes left. Tom wasted three just breathing Harry in. He’s not going to waste the rest. He turns and grabs Harry in a death grip, latching on to Harry’s waist and back and pulling him right in. Harry’s breath hitches, but not enough to stir the guard, and then he’s melting into Tom’s touch, just like he always does. His arms warp tight around Tom’s body, face burying in Tom’s shoulder. It’s the hardest embrace Tom’s ever had. It crushes the wind right out of him, but he keeps holding on.

Then his captor’s calling, “Ensign Kim...”

And Harry gently retracts. It takes everything Tom has to let him go. He reiterates, “Only a few more days.” 

Tom nods. Swallows. “We’ve survived worse, right?”

“Oh, way worse.”

The guard sounds sympathetic but still prods, “Ensign...”

Tom can’t know which one she means anymore. They’re the same rank again. Harry was the one that should’ve made lieutenant in the first place. 

Harry presses a long, chaste kiss to his forehead, then walks away, and Tom’s back to the hole in his chest where Harry just was.


End file.
